


Sherlollipops - In the Heat of the Night

by MizJoely



Series: 221 Sherlollipops [214]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Omegaverse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-10
Updated: 2016-12-10
Packaged: 2018-09-07 16:18:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,531
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8807623
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MizJoely/pseuds/MizJoely
Summary: The storm sets off her heat, the rain and the smell of ozone from the flashes of lightning, the rolling of the thunder juddering through her very bones. Sherlock is on a case, not due back for days, and she resists the urge to text him, to call him, to beg him to return to home and hearth and heat-stricken mate.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [broomclosetkink](https://archiveofourown.org/users/broomclosetkink/gifts).



The storm sets off her heat, the rain and the smell of ozone from the flashes of lightning, the rolling of the thunder juddering through her very bones. Sherlock is on a case, not due back for days, and she resists the urge to text him, to call him, to beg him to return to home and hearth and heat-stricken mate. The rain falls, relentless and unrelieved, just like the itch beneath her skin and the prickling of her flesh and the aching need deep in her cunt.

She retains enough presence of mind to call out at work and to ask Mrs. Hudson to order in some groceries before she barricades herself in the flat. She's never felt a heat this intense, never had one come over her so suddenly, blotting out reason and leaving her crying and shivering in the nest she builds out of heaped-up coverlets and sheets. But it isn't enough; curled up in it, she needs _more_. She needs Sherlock but he's not here so her frustrated instincts drive her to create an even safer space for herself. Every pillow in the sitting room, every cushion, every one of his silky-smooth shirts joins the pile she builds in the bedroom; the mattress is half-pulled from the bed, forming a sort of tent under which she lies naked, curled up and miserable and waiting out the biological storm the unseasonable weather has brought about.

She has no idea how much time has passed before something alerts her - a scent on the air, a taste on the tongue. She half-rises, listening, sniffing, her heart pounding, pounding in her chest in rhythm with the footsteps she hears hurrying up the stairs. Instead of rushing to meet him - because of course it's him, his scent is hot and thick on her tongue and in her nose, burning her eyes and filling her senses in other ways she can't describe - she burrows further beneath her fortress and waits for him to find her.

"Molly, Molly" he calls through the door, and she hears him rattling the handle. Had she locked it? She supposes she must have, although she has no memory of doing so. He's her mate, true, but anger rises up inside her chest, unreasonable anger that screams _why did you take so long, why didn't you know I needed you?_ He can find his own damn way to her. Making him wait is ridiculous when they both want and need and ache for the same thing, but it's all instinct and feral needs right now - and he has to be punished for taking so long to come back to her. He has to prove that he wants her badly enough to fight his way through the barriers she's created - including, she dimly realizes, the chair she's shoved under the door handle to frustrate any attempts at picking the lock.

She's so focused on that door that she doesn't realize the mistake she's made until suddenly his scent floods the bedroom; she's forgotten the door to the en suite, left it unlocked, unguarded, and growls a warning when he drops to all fours and begins worming his way into the den she's created beneath the tenting cover of the mattress. "Molly," he says softly, a soothing purr deep in his throat as he reaches out to stroke the sole of her foot. She pulls it back with another growl, tucks it beneath the pile of blankets and turns her face away from him. He's not yet forgiven, despite the shivers of want his touch sends coursing over her body.

He's Sherlock Holmes, proper genius, and gets the hint; his hand withdraws but his soothing purr continues in between his cajoling attempts to receive permission to join her. "Molly, I'm sorry, Mrs. Hudson texted but John and I were in Devonshire, I had no mobile coverage for hours. Not until we were on the train back to London. I promise you, if I'd known your heat was coming I'd never have left, not even for a 10, not even if Moriarty himself came back from the dead."

At the sound of her dead lover's name Molly snarls, snapping her teeth at the memory of the alpha who betrayed her so cruelly, once upon a time. Sherlock offers a small whine, acknowledging his mistake in bringing that name into their personal space. Molly's appeased by that sound and the scent of contrition now filling the air. He purrs for her again, and she feels her anger evaporating, replaced by a ferocious hunger for her mate. "Now," she growls and like a pale streak of lightning released from the storm still raging outside, Sherlock joins her.

He's naked, clever man, and pulls her to him hungrily, unsnarling her from the nest but knowing better than to remove her from it completely. The mattress restricts their movements but Molly doesn't care; she _wants_ him to have to be creative, to be careful not to dislodge all her hard work. This is their time, but it's _her_ space and he damn well better respect it or she'll reject him, heat or no heat.

Fortunately for them both Sherlock manages to align his body with hers without ruining the infrastructure of the nest, and Molly's instincts are appeased. They're more than appeased once he reaches between her legs, sliding his long, elegant fingers deep inside her, drawing out more of the slick moisture smeared across her thighs. Her growls have become sighs of pleasure, and soon she feels her first orgasm explode through her senses.

When she comes back to herself he's lying completely atop her, the hot, heavy weight of his cock burning against her overheated flesh. "Molly," he begs. "Please."

"Now," she replies, and he gives a grunt of relief as he begins pushing his way inside her. She spreads her legs and clings to his shoulders, digging her nails into his flesh in a silent demand to move faster, to soothe the ache in body and soul, the ease their mutual suffering. But he refuses to hurry, slowly and steadily working his way into position, and she knows that later she'll appreciate his care…but not now. Now she wants, she needs, she _burns_ for him and he's taking too. Fucking. LONG. She nips at him, writhes beneath him, pants hot breaths in his ear, whines and growls and finally -- finally! -- hears him groan in surrender. They both cry out as he pivots those slender, powerful hips of his just enough to thrust himself fully, deeply inside her.

Molly nearly blacks out at the sensation; she's stretched to her limits, as always with him, and they spend a moment just breathing and basking in the pleasure of their joined bodies. Then their eyes meet, and even in the dimness of the room and the fog of heat Molly can see everything she's ever wanted, can smell it on him even over the sex - how much he loves her, how much he wants to be with her, how proud he is to be her mate - and they explode into movement. His head descends and he's kissing her breathless, tongues tangling, teeth clashing and even the tang of blood in the air as one of them - him? her? who knows? who even cares? - accidentally nips the other's lips.

The blood sends them into an increased frenzy; he's pounding into her and she's meeting his every thrust with one of his own; her legs are wrapped tightly around his waist and her hands are tangled in his hair, fingernails digging into his scalp. He turns his head and bites the lobe of her ear, hard, yanking her head back to expose her neck, taking deep, gloriously vulgar sniffs at her throat. She howls her pleasure as his teeth sink into the mark he left on her after their first mating only a few short years earlier, and she feels his knot rising. "Please, Sherlock." It's her turn to beg, to plead, for what she needs. "Please, I need it."

"Omega," he rasps, and she smells the spike in his scent that means he's entered a full alpha rut. His movements increase and she howls again when her second orgasm washes over her, carrying her off on a tide of mingled pain and pleasure as he punches his knot deep, deep inside her. She feels the hot gush of his cum in her womb and the most primitive part of her hind-brain rejoices in the knowledge that this mating will end with a new life growing inside her.

He rolls them onto their sides, holding her tightly to him, their sweat-slicked bodies still locked together and likely to stay that way for longer than usual. "A baby," he says softly, and her heart swells with love for him, for his immediate recognition of why this mating is different than the other heats they've shared.

"A baby," she agrees, smiling tremulously as she reaches up to brush the damp curls from his forehead.

He smiles and nods and just like that, their future is decided.

A baby. A new life, part Sherlock, part Molly, wholly loved.

Their future.


End file.
